by Emmy Ellis
He raised his eyebrows, wedged his elbows on the armrests, and steepled his fingers. He tapped the tips against each other, a tactic he always employed when he wanted to get his own way.
She wasn’t going to back down. “Look, I’m not being funny, but I have a murder on my hands, all right? I need a break—today has been nonstop—and going out on a work-based evening isn’t a break, is it,” she went on.
“A murder? You’ve only just dealt with three others a few days ago.”
If you were more on the bloody ball, you’d know about it already, but seeing as you tell me to just get on with it, why are you so shocked?
She shrugged. “I can’t help the fact that some woman has decided to kill another. It’s not like they ask for permission first. You know, ‘Sorry if you’re busy, but I really need to do this lady in.’” She sighed. “I might even have to work late, who knows. We have nothing to lead us to anyone yet, and there’s so much sifting to do it isn’t funny.”
“In that case, I’ll let you off,” he said, standing.
That’s good of you…
He smiled tightly, spots of colour deepening on the rounded balls of his cheeks. “I just thought it might be nice, that’s all.”
Nice?
“And we rarely communicate.”
And who’s idea was that?
“I’ll see myself out.” He left, closing the door quietly.
She blew out a long breath and stared at the ceiling. Why the hell he expected her to go with him on a casual interview was beyond her. He’d never asked her to get involved with that side of things before, so why start now? Did he think since she wasn’t with Marshall anymore, he had an in?
I mean, a date…?
She shuddered at that thought and the memory of Marshall duping her the way he had. For the first couple of days after he’d been arrested, she’d asked herself whether she ought to do this job anymore. Her instincts had been way off with him, what with her not picking up on the fact he had a mental illness. All right, she’d gathered he was weird when he’d followed her places after they’d split, but the depths of his depravity hadn’t been apparent at all until the bodies and the gifts he’d left behind had shown him for what he was. A monster.
She hadn’t slept well, either, and after the days she’d had recently, a bit of relaxation in The Blue Pigeon with Zach was just what she needed. A nice meal, a couple of vodkas, and good company.
To get her mind off Yarworth’s weird-arsed invitation, she went out into the incident room to find him talking to Ol. What the hell? Was he asking her to go with him now? Ol glanced around him at Helena, and Helena held her hands up in a gesture that said: Don’t do it if you don’t want to.
Ol looked up at him towering over her while she sat, appearing interested, being polite.
Helena shook her head and walked over to the whiteboard, studying it, trying to drown out the mumble of Yarworth’s voice. She read the information, still none the wiser as to how to find this bitch who’d killed Felicity. Until forensics came back with any fingerprints or whatever, they had little to work with.
Her mobile rang, and she answered it.
“It’s about work, don’t worry,” Zach said.
She hustled into her office anyway, closing the door. “What have you got for me?”
“A few things from the PM. She was struck, as well as being stabbed. Bruising came out on her stomach—what I could see of the skin anyway—so she was either punched before being stabbed, or in between each blade puncture. I’ve made out twenty-three individual slices, which, as you know, indicates anger for someone to keep stabbing that many times.”
“Seems she knew her attacker. That’s usually the case in situations like this.” She sighed. “The problem is, she apparently kept herself to herself. She told her friend she’d been abducted by Uthway, can you believe, and after she escaped, she didn’t mingle. So it’d have to be someone she worked with or from her past. I’m just about to go and speak to any colleagues at Smaltern Amusements before heading home. I can’t believe how quickly the day has gone.”
“Some of the stabs went through her back and into the bed,” he said.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, imagining the blood-soaked mattress, the slits in it from where the knife had pierced. She cracked her eyes open and stared at the rain dribbling down the windowpane. They’re like tears. A visual of Emma Walker in the bath assaulted her, the tulip Marshall had planted there sticking out of it. She blinked to get rid of it. “Blimey, that’s someone with a serious rage problem. Anything else?”
“No sign of sexual interference, so that’s something.”
“Good. At least she didn’t suffer that horror before he killed her. What about the strength needed to do this? Could it be a woman?”
“Of course. If someone’s riled up enough, the strength comes. Other than what I’ve told you, there’ll be nothing else until tomorrow. I’ll carry on in the morning. It’s been a bit of a difficult one, seeing as there’s so much mess.”
“Okay, still on for eight o’clock?”
“Yep, see you there.”
“Hopefully—unless something else happens.”
“Let’s pray it doesn’t then.”
She ended the call, shoved her phone in her pocket, and returned to the incident room. Yarworth had gone, thank God, and Ol waved her over.
“All right?” Helena asked, searching Ol’s face for any sign she was uncomfortable with having to speak to Yarworth about the ‘date’.
“He tried getting me to go out with him tonight to some work thing, but I told him I was busy. Phil said he’d go, though, so that’s sorted.”
“How did Yarworth take that?”
“He looked a bit put out, to be honest.” Ol lifted her shoulders.
“Bloody weirdo. If all he wanted was a ‘companion’, as he put it to me, what does it matter whether it’s a woman or a man? It’s a work thing. He doesn’t need anyone dangling off his arm.”
“I don’t know, but I find him creepy, so no thanks.” Ol gave an exaggerated shudder and hugged herself.
Best the subject was changed. “Have you found anything on social media at all?”
“No. Felicity’s not even on it.”
“Makes sense if she only had Becky and Jean. Has anything come back as to whether a phone was found at her place?”
“Yes, forensics are looking at it now.”
“Good. What about Zoe Jacks’ friends? Anything there?”
“I’ve only managed to get hold of two. Phil’s spoken to one. None of them have heard anything about Felicity for years, so I’m assuming the rest will say the same. I’ll keep trying them—they’re probably at work and can’t answer.”
“Hmm. I need to nip to the amusement arcade with Andy to speak to the manager, so give it another hour here, then go home.”
“Okay, guv.” Ol twisted her seat round and picked up the phone.
Helena moved over to Phil. “Anything on CCTV or in the diary?”
“Nope,” he said. “The nearest camera to Miss Greaves’ home is at the local shops, and they’re ten streets away. No one fitting the mystery woman’s description was caught on camera, sorry, and all car number plates from shoppers have been verified as innocent people. The diary is a lot of the same thing, plus what she did that day, which is boring stuff. Nothing we can use.”
“Thanks for trying.” She walked to Andy’s desk. “Come on, we need to be off.”
They dashed across the car park, Helena dodging puddles and squinting to stop the rain getting in her eyes. In the car, Andy sighed and jabbed his seat belt on.
“What’s up?” she asked, nosing the car onto the road.
“Yarworth.”
“What about him?”
“He said someone new is joining our team.”
“What?” Helena wanted to stop driving, but there were too many cars behind and nowhere to pull over. “He didn’t fucking tell me that!”
“Y
ep, two new people. One will be coming our way.”
“He implied they were coming here in general. I don’t need another person on the sodding team. We do all right on our own, thank you.” She was angry at not being told she’d be in charge of another person. Maybe he’d kept that info back because she’d refused to spy on the applicants over dinner. Shit, she wished she’d agreed to go now. At least she could have chosen the person herself. God knew who he’d pick. “Is Phil aware of that?”
“Yeah, I told him once Yarworth had buggered off, so he knows to opt for someone we’ll all like. I made sure he got the gist of how important it is. Since I’ve stopped being a prat, we all get on well. It’d be a shame to mess that up.”
“It would.”
“I’ve got a confession.” He fiddled with his fingers.
“What?” She parked outside the amusement arcade. With the windscreen wipers off, water floated down it in a complete sheet, rippling and opaque.
“I thought you were in on it,” he said. “You know, sticking by what you said and asking for a new partner.”
She faced him. “No. What I’m sticking to is us making a go of it, me and you as partners. I wouldn’t go back on my word like that. I’m as pissed off as you, I can tell you that much.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’d have probably thought the same thing. Balls. All we can hope for is that we get a good worker. Besides, it isn’t really going to affect me and you. We’re out and about all the time. It’s Ol and Phil who’ll have to put up with them for the most part.”
In a huff, she got out and waited for Andy under the black-and-red-striped awning so she wouldn’t get any wetter. Together, they walked inside, the air musty and miraculously still holding the scent of the many cigarettes that had been smoked before the new law had come in years ago. The tangy smell of copper was prevalent. She headed towards the money exchange booth, which contained rows of coins in orange slots and an old gal who had worked there so long she might have grown roots in the chair.
Holding her ID up to the plastic shield, Helena waited for the woman to leave the booth.
“Glen!” she shouted, shoving little fists on her hips. “Come and watch the money for a minute or two.”
Glen appeared, all six feet of him, his gait loping, his shaved head and features giving him the look of that weird bloke in The Munsters. He slid into the booth and locked himself in.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice high and screeching.
Helena stared down at her, trying not to wince. “What’s your name, please?”
“Betty Crocker,” she said and wheezed out laughter. It turned into a cough, and she thumped her chest, eyes watering. “Barbara Cooper really. I do like a bit of a joke.”
“Is there somewhere private we can talk? We’re here to discuss Miss Greaves.” Helena lifted her eyebrows.
“I’ve got an office, but it looks like the arse end of that bloody hurricane ripped through it. If you don’t mind a bit of mess, be my guest.” She pointed at a black door beside the booth with NO ENTRY on a gold plaque, then toddled over there. Door open, she held it back, wrinkled hands splayed on it.
Helena and Andy went inside, and Barbara hadn’t been wrong. The place was a shit tip. Bills and papers covered the desk, the keyboard buried beneath, only one corner of it visible. The computer monitor was one of those old ones with a sloping back, the white casing grimy with age and possibly cigarette smoke. Cardboard boxes were stacked along the left wall, multi-coloured fluffy toys for the grab machine peering out of the top one, an arm here, a leg there, and an assortment of heads, ears, black plastic noses, and googly eyes. On the floor beside the doorframe, various small trinkets filled a red-and-white checked washing bag, the sort you took to the laundrette.
All in all, it was chaos.
Barbara let the door go and flopped into the only chair, the black leather ripped, cracked, and worn. “Is she coming in any time soon? I mean, I have people lining up to work here, so she really ought to count herself lucky she has a job.”
“Unfortunately not,” Helena said. “Had Miss Greaves ever confided in you at all?”
Barbara barked out a laugh. “Not fucking likely. She does her job then goes home. Hardly speaks to me.”
“And what exactly did she do here?”
“Mans the money, refills the grabby machine, puts coins in the slider games. You know the ones? You put your money in, and the slider pushes it forward? You might win a keyring if you’re lucky.”
“Yes, I know what you mean.” Helena wasn’t there to talk about how the pissing amusements operated, and she sensed she’d get ratty soon. “Do you know whether she had any trouble from customers—females in particular?”
“Nope. She’s quiet as a bleeding mouse, that one. Not any trouble—until today, that is. Her not turning up means I have to sit in that booth, and it’s claustrophobic. Glen’s not much cop at counting, but I had to get him in there, otherwise I can’t talk to you. And as for that Becky just swanning off the way she did once that copper had come to see her…”
“I’m afraid Felicity was murdered last night.”
“Murdered? What the fucking hell?” Barbara grabbed the desk for support with one hand, and several papers sailed off and landed on the floor, one covering her shoes. “I thought that fella was caught!”
“It’s a different killer, Barbara.”
“Gawd blimey. Why would anyone want to kill her? All right, she’s a bit of a wet blanket, but that’s no reason, is it?”
“No. Wet blanket?”
“Oh, always off in her head, she is.” Barbara pointed to her temple and tapped it. “Jumpy as well. Say boo, and she’d crap herself. Sorry, but the thought of her having enemies is laughable. Talking of boo, she wouldn’t say it to a goose.”
“It’s really important for you to think now as to whether anyone would have been upset by her at work.”
“There’s no one.”
After a few more questions and nothing of value surfacing, Helena had a quick word with Glen. It was obvious he didn’t have a clue as to who would have killed Felicity, spluttering about how he’d barely spoken to her because she hadn’t seemed to like him.
They left the arcade, and Helena dropped Andy home. Then she went to her house to have a nice vodka with ice while she had a bath.
She had a proper date to go on.
Chapter Nine
I am God; you will obey.
Helena shuddered. Emilija, the Lithuanian woman who’d escaped from Uthway’s place in Lime Street, had told her that was what the symbols carved into the dead bodies meant. The women he’d discarded as not being good enough to sell on in the sex-slave trade had been murdered, their bodies left for Helena to find, the symbol a mystery, a warning to the other captives. That was all she’d had to go on in the beginning, but a tip-off had come in from a neighbour in Lime Street who’d got suspicious about the amount of activity in Uthway’s den—men going in and out during the day, and dark figures doing much the same at night. A white van also appeared, always after midnight, and shadows in the shape of people were taken inside.
And the caller had also said a naked woman had run out of the house and disappeared into the trees during the day.
That had been what Helena had needed—a place to check out, somewhere to watch. After Emilija had been questioned, Helena went off on her own, leaving Andy behind in the incident room, telling him she needed to go and post a parcel and she wouldn’t be long.
She threw protocol out of the window and headed for Lime Street. She positioned herself across the road, hiding in amongst the trees and bushes. It was daytime, so she’d be safe. Telling herself she’d just watch for an hour, she settled down on her knees, binoculars in front of her eyes.
Ah, there were the men—well, two at any rate—talking out on the path. She was too far away to hear what they were saying, but the gestures and head shaking told her something was bothering them. Probably
Emilija’s escape. If one person could get away, what was to stop someone else bolting? She imagined them saying that.
Had any others got away, too?
Then the men went inside for a moment and came out again with several others, closing the front door. All of them walked away from the house in different directions.
Were only the captives inside now?
She hadn’t actioned a unit to come and storm the place yet. She’d told Andy she’d do it once she’d sent her parcel. She hadn’t passed on the new information about Emilija’s escape to Yarworth because he never wanted to know about cases until they were over. No, she’d just come straight here, the late-afternoon sun still as hot as it has been that morning when Emilija had broken free.
While she watched for signs of more activity, she thought about her interview with Emilija.
“Was it only you who got away?” Helena had asked.
“I don’t know. I was busy thinking about myself. Cruel. I was cruel not to help the others.”
Helena had reached out and taken Emilija’s hand and squeezed it. “You were fighting to survive. Don’t blame yourself.” She’d paused, then, “Do you know any of the others’ names?”
Emilija had shaken her head. “We were not allowed to say. If we did, they would kill us. There were men, too. Young men. Aged around eighteen, but just two of them. The rest were women.”
“Okay.” Helena had sighed. “What happened? How did you get away?”
“There were so many of us in that room. We were packed in. I wondered if they even knew how many. They could have forgotten to count, I do not know, but that was what went round in my head—they do not know the numbers. Somebody came in, one of the big men, the nasty one, then he was called away by a shout. He shut the door, but it did not lock.”
“So you took the opportunity to leave?”
Emilija had nodded. “I did. I said to the others it was our chance, but they were too scared. Many said they would stay there. A couple said they might run, too. We had to whisper in case we were heard. But I could not stay. I did not want to be raped again.” She’d lowered her head. “I did not want to be sold to a rich man who would use me like that. So I got up and opened the door. It hurt—my body was so sore from not moving much.”